Corey had his routine down pat. When we got in, he had the three of us sit at the counter, while he went in the back. The sounds of cooler doors opening and closing, then baking tins sliding into the oven was the first thing I heard.
“Core? You need help?”
“I’m good. I’ve been doing this every day for years.”
That was all well and fine, but I wasn’t about to let my mate work his fingers to nubs while I sat on my ass. I got up from my seat, then ensured the sugar caddies, salt and pepper shakers, and condiment station were all full. Then I did the same for the dish ware.
“What can I do?” Matt asked me.
“Matt wants to help,” I called out. “Do you have something he can do?”
The door opened and Corey stepped out. I could see traces of flour and shiny spots, probably from the nonstick spray we used in the pans, on an apron he’d donned. He smiled at Matt.
“Which do you prefer? Hot chocolate or tea?”
“I can have coffee.”